


Persistence Takes Patience

by stepstostars



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Manipulations, Power Imbalance, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-06-15
Packaged: 2017-11-07 00:21:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/424825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepstostars/pseuds/stepstostars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg plays a game that he doesn't even seem to know half the rules of, Mycroft's a stubborn, overprotective prick, Sherlock's used as a pawn on the chessboard, and John, while insightful, is late to the party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hearts (and why it sucks to have one)

**Author's Note:**

> A few things:
> 
> Brief mentions of Sherlock/Lestrade, but this is Mycroft/Lestrade through and through.
> 
> Semi-dark in the beginning, lightens out by the end.
> 
> Quotes from Star Trek just because.
> 
> Concrit is amazing.

Greg met Sherlock Holmes on a grey, rainy day. He and his team were working a case when Sherlock, spouting invectives, came prancing around the corner. They eventually solved it together and then fell to bed a few hours later.

—after brushing up against the wall, the table, and the kitchen counter.

The next day, Mycroft Holmes introduced himself to Greg, who ended up turning down the bribes, laughing at the threats, and yelling in Mycroft’s face before storming off.

\--

“I would recommend you not go, Detective Inspector.”

“And why should I listen to you, Mr. Holmes?” Greg leaned back in his chair, swinging his legs onto his table and folding his hands behind his head.

Mycroft opened his mouth, letting it hang open for a few seconds before shutting it, lips thinning to a straight line, “Unfortunately, you don’t hold the proper security clearance—“

“And I do not _care_ , Mr. Holmes.” He smiled sharply. “I don’t know what you’re planning or what you want with me, but I refuse to deal with this without a proper explanation.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrow suddenly and he lets out a breath of a laugh, tone lowering to something prickly and dangerous. “I can have you replaced in an instant. I can ruin your life—destroy everyone you’ve ever known and loved, keep you suspended in pain and agony until you beg for mercy. It would be in your best interest to simply acquiesce to my demands.”

“Go on. Do it. I’ll ensure your brother’s swift demise,” said Greg, voice harsh and acidic, “Train him a new keeper. Someone who can keep him in line—someone he respects and will listen to. Get him off drugs, stop his self-destructive habits.”

“My brother is troublesome, yes, but that can all be arranged—”

“Yes, yes, you were having so much success before,” Greg spat out, “I’m sure it’ll only take a few more years—hell, maybe even a few months—before you find someone suitable. Never mind the fact that your brother’d be dead in a week if he didn’t have a minder on full-time watch. He’s broken out of rehab five times already and escaped your watch ten times over. He would die without me, and you know it.”

Mycroft blinked and stared at him then, left eyebrow slowly rising to his forehead. He took a breath, mouth working to form the words he needed. “You really think this matters to me, as if I actually _care_ —” he finally murmured, and Greg could sense the uncertainty, latched onto that weakness.

“No, I know you do. Your bluff is weak,” he said. He slipped his legs off his desk, planting his palms flat on the wooden surface as he pushed himself up. He pressed his advantage, the few inches he had on Mycroft, leaning in close to his face. “You would do anything, _everything_ to keep your brother safe. You would sell the country’s secrets away, kill someone with your bare hands, sacrifice millions of lives. All for him. Your precious little brother.”

Mycroft’s eyes are still wide, wonder tracing the edges of his pupil in rings of light, bright blue. “How fascinating you are, Detective Inspector,” and he did sound interested, curiousity and astonishment practically dripping from each letter. “I never expected this from you.”

He smiled tightly, dropping back down into his chair. “I refuse to be your puppet, Mr. Holmes. Please do have a good day.”

Shaking his head, Mycroft stood and turned toward the door. “You’re wasted on him,” he offered over his shoulder, “You could do much better than Sherlock.”

“Like who?” asked Greg snidely, “You?”

Mycroft paused at the door, hand on the knob, turning around to stare Greg straight in the eye. “There is a limit to what you can hide behind,” he said, tone grim, blue eyes dark and dangerous again. “Be careful with what you say, Detective Inspector.”

He left, shutting the door firmly behind him, leaving Greg with a scornful smile a lump of guilt in his stomach.

\--

That next evening, Sherlock, high off the adrenaline of a case, slammed him into the wall and snogged him senseless against the wall. They rutted against each other desperately, sliding to the floor once they finished.

“Next,” said Sherlock, breath coming in short, eyes wild and sparkling with the promise of adventure. “Another case.”

Greg dragged him in for a kiss, hoping to distract him with a different idea. Mycroft had already slipped from his mind, long forgotten in the cloud of sex.

Oh how he wished that moment had lasted.

\--

It became a weekly thing—Greg being kidnapped, that is. A black car would roll around Scotland Yard right as he checked out, and he would get in.

Sometimes Mycroft would already be waiting in whatever setting he’d chosen for the time, smug smile in tow, and other times Greg would be sitting around for hours, counting the lines on the ceiling. He’d tried walking out, ignoring the cars and calls, even calling Sherlock to pick him up from the Yard one (terrible) time, but Mycroft never budged on the meetings, and Greg always found himself being dragged to them, one way or another.

“Mycroft,” he had started one time, “I’m in love with your brother. I am still shagging your brother. Nothing you say will convince me otherwise.”

“You would be surprised how easy it is to change people’s minds about love,” Mycroft had replied.

And, truly, it really was.

\--

“I think you’re an utter prick,” said Greg. “An arse with no remorse. I hate you. We don’t get along. I don’t understand the point of these meetings when you know I won’t tell you anything.”

Mycroft shrugged. “They’re quite enlightening, Detective Inspector.” His smile was razor-sharp. “And I do enjoy seeing you so enraged. It’s a flattering complexion on you.”

“Well I wish I could say the same for you,” he snapped. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

Mycroft’s mouth flattened to a thin line. “How droll.”

\--

Greg stormed into the office this time. “You can’t just kidnap me during a case!”

Mycroft looked up from the desk, bored. “I just did.”

“No,” said Greg, “You can’t.” He marched out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

\--

"What do you even do?"

Mycroft looked up, "Pardon?"

"What do you do? I mean, we might as well talk about something I'm interested in if you're going to drag me here."

"I'm not sure you understand how these proceedings work. I will be the one to ask questions, Detective Inspector."

"And while that's fantastic fun, I actually haven't seen Sherlock since before our last meeting. And yet, here we are." Greg shrugged, "If we're going to waste time..."

"No."

There was a pause. Greg’s eyebrows furrowed. "Then what am I doing here? Contrary to popular belief, watching you work is not one of my favourite hobbies."

Mycroft hummed noncommittally.

Greg cocked his head to the side. “I miss him, you know,” he said, “I almost wish a ridiculously complicated murder would pop up so I could tempt him with it.”

Sighing, Mycroft pressed a button on his desk. "The car will be outside to take you back."

\--

“That is my case,” confirmed Greg. “And if you want anything to do with it, you will tell me. Thank you.”

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. “It doesn’t work that way.”

Greg frowned, eyes narrowing. “I sucked him off while he was sitting in that chair once, you know,” he said casually, because they were in his flat for this particular meeting and he was feeling especially bitter. “He came all over my face.”

Mycroft immediately stood up, a pained expression on his face and hands twitching at his sides. “Good day, Detective Inspector.”

\--

“We shagged five hours ago,” said Greg, taking a little pleasure at seeing Mycroft’s face shut down. “It was wonderfully cathartic.”

“Lovely,” said Mycroft.

“See, Sherlock does this _thing_ with his hips that just,” Greg sighed, “It’s amazing.”

“Detective Inspector.”

“He always seems to know where the prostate is. It’s oddly endearing and incredibly useful.”

“ _Detective Inspector_.”

“Especially when he’s fucking me into the bed and—”

“ _Gregory_.” Mycroft firmly wrapped a hand around Greg’s mouth, eyes dark and burning. “Desist.”

He licked Mycroft’s palm, mouthing, “Make me,” against it.

\--

“I fucked him this time.” Greg looked up from picking at his nails, smiling brightly at Mycroft. “He has the most beautiful arse.”

Mycroft’s face only closed off for a second this time, the brief flash of pain barely caught by Greg’s sharp eyes. “I understand you do not _want_ to, however—”

“He was on his hands and knees—”

Mycroft’s hand slammed down on the table, rocking a few folders off the desk and jarring Greg from his thoughts. He was dragged up, lips captured in a bruising kiss as Mycroft seemed to try and press himself into Greg, push them into one being. Their separation was just as sudden, Greg dazed and confused at the loss. “You will stop,” whispered Mycroft, voice a low growl.

Greg smiled. “Make me.”

\--

If Greg thought hard enough, he could almost persuade himself that he was in love with Sherlock. That _this_ genius—with his messy black curls and keen gray eyes, the beautiful shirts and slim trousers, the chaotic, manic brilliance—was what he wanted. In fact, a month ago, during their third shared case, Greg _was_ in love with Sherlock, was willing to risk his career and life for him.

He was still willing to do that now, even, because Sherlock was a great man who deserved all the trust and loyalty Greg could give him.

But back then, Greg still dreamed of Sherlock’s hands, of Sherlock’s voice whispering in his ear, of Sherlock’s lithe body pushing him up against a wall and fucking him. Now, he couldn’t help but think of less-calloused fingers and lighter hair, bluer eyes and sharper smiles, and he hated himself for it.

Sherlock didn’t love him, but he could—Greg could see the potential simmering below the surface. It was waiting on Greg’s approval—and he should want to spark that fire—but his stomach turned at the thought and his heart always tried to beat its way out of his chest when he thought about it.

Because Mycroft Holmes had wormed his way into his life and refused to leave.

\--

“We can’t do this anymore.”

“Lestrade.” Sherlock grabbed his shoulder, pulling him back before he could make his escape. “Greg.”

He sighed and turned, letting Sherlock search for his answers himself. “Sherlock,” he said, voice tight and tired. “You deserve better.”

“What changed?” asked Sherlock, words radiating vulnerability and hurt, even when his tone demanded answers.

Greg knew he could hurt him right now, twist a stake deep into Sherlock’s heart until it bled out, but he doesn’t. “You’re beautiful,” he said instead, because it was true, “Brilliant and bright and altogether too good for an idiot like me,” because that was true, too. “And you deserve someone who knows all of that and can give you something other than a supply of unlimited cold cases.”

Sherlock frowned. “I don’t understand. You do.”

“Your _heart_ , Sherlock,” Greg sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Is precious. And you deserve someone who can love you back. I can’t, and I refuse to see you wasted on me because my heart can’t accept something my brain knows to be the ultimate gift.”

Sherlock blinked at him, lips pursing into a frown. “My brother,” he said flatly. “What did he do?”

“Sherlock,” said Greg. Helpless, because of course he couldn’t hide this from Sherlock. He couldn’t hide anything from Sherlock. “I—“

“He threatened you, the nosy sod,” interrupted Sherlock, eyes sharpening to points, ideas visibly churning away in his brain, “I can protect you.”

“I know.” Greg sighed, eyes closing in surrender. “And I did use you. Like a tool. And I can’t forgive myself for that, because you deserve someone better. Someone with enough courage to stand up to Mycroft on his own terms without having to rely on others.”

“You’re punishing yourself for something you don’t deserve. I don’t care if you used me against my brother.” Sherlock paced around in front of him in obvious aggravation before suddenly stopping and shaking his head. “However, if honoring this request will give you any measure of peace, consider our arrangement over."

Greg heard more than saw Sherlock exit, feeling terrible and lonely and _hollow_.

\--

John Watson was more a culmination of events than a surprise.

Greg wasn’t naive to think he would be safe forever, not when he’d refused to take the last few steps to bind Sherlock’s heart. Greg’s position as his keeper had come to an end.

Mycroft had won. That much was certain. Greg had deliberately flouted him, taunted him with his weakness, and now he was without defences—like a lamb up for the slaughter.

But if he died, it would at least be on his own terms and in his own home. He leaned back into his couch and checked his phone for the fifth time in ten minutes. Still no messages or calls. He sighed.

The door opened near silently and Mycroft gingerly stepped in, dressed in his usual three-piece suit and an umbrella hanging off his arm. It was a solid steel-grey waistcoat underneath a matching jacket this time, light pink shirt and speckled light grey tie peeking out from underneath.

“Detective Inspector,” greeted Mycroft, leaning his umbrella against the wall.

“Mr. Holmes,” he replied.

There was a silence; Greg enjoying the peace and emptiness while Mycroft’s usual never-ending patience gradually ran itself out.

“Your call seemed quite urgent,” he finally said.

Greg could’ve answered with a thousand different things; told Mycroft to fuck off and leave him alone, that he couldn’t hate anyone more than he hated _him_. “John’s a good man,” he said instead, “You chose well.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft inspected the cups of coffee on the table. “He’s remarkably similar to you in some ways.”

“And different in ways that are better for Sherlock, I hope.”

“Yes, indeed.” Mycroft gave him a dead smile that matched the apathy in his eyes. “Hopefully less clever, too.”

“Oh? I thought your family valued cleverness. It seems to be the only thing you respect.”

“Ah, how witty. I always seem to forget how bright you can be when you exercise your brain. It’s usually lost in the muddle.”

Greg pulled a disgusted face. “Well, then, let’s get this over with now, shall we?” He leaned down to grab at the gun lying on ground by the table. He handed it to Mycroft, smiling quite peacefully. “I’m of no use to you anymore.”

Mycroft looked from Greg to the gun, stark black against his pale hands. “You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. I’ve given you the gun, haven’t I? The note’s already written. I just thought you’d like to do the honours.”

Cocking it with an audible click, Mycroft slowly lifted it to Greg’s face. The metal felt cool against his skin, the muzzle leisurely making its way from his forehead down to the curve of his jaw. He closed his eyes and sighed, waiting for the end. The gun suddenly stopped, a cold presence on his cheek.

“You had the chance,” said Mycroft, “Why didn’t you take it?”

He frowned, opening his eyes. “Why does that matter? You’ve won. Take your prize.”

“Mm. Why so hasty, Detective Inspector?” The gun moved away. “No, this was much too easy, there’s something wrong.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t live up to your standards then,” he said through gritted teeth, “You overestimated me. Don’t make that mistake again.”

“No, no, something must have happened.” Mycroft decocked the gun, pulling out the magazine and pushing out the bullets. Greg watched in horror as they fell to the floor with small thumps. He reached out to take the pistol away from Mycroft, bending down to grab at the bullets scattered on the ground. A hand pushed him back into the seat before he could even touch one, firmly pressing him back into his seat.

“What are you—“ Greg spluttered, shoving the hand on his chest away and reaching out for the bullets again. Mycroft whipped the gun around, slapping Greg hard in the cheek and knocking him back onto the couch.

“Again, why so hasty? Please, sit back and relax.” Mycroft smirked, wide and menacing across his face, “Now where were we?”

Greg stared at him, stunned, hand rising to touch the growing bruise on his face. “You—”

“Ah, yes, something happened. You’ve been nothing but reasonable and logical before this, so what changed? Something didn’t go to plan.” Mycroft tossed the empty magazine to the ground, fiddling around with the pistol now. “You had Sherlock, knew I was paralysed while you two were still involved. You’re attracted to him, you still want him,” Mycroft frowned to himself. “Now, what could have happened?”

“Nothing,” spat Greg viciously, even as his throat dried and his palms started to sweat.

Mycroft eyed him for a second, head cocked to the side like a hawk, before his gaze suddenly sharpened. “Ah, a new emotional attachment. One you’ve obviously tried hard to hide, but the guilt is still there. So you refused to take Sherlock’s heart when your own was otherwise occupied—you’re much too honourable for that. But who?

“Not any of your subordinates; again, honour. A new acquaintance, perhaps? But no, this isn’t something new, you’ve continued your dalliance with Sherlock in the hopes it would go away. You wouldn’t lock yourself into this corner if you had any other options. An old friend or acquaintance then? Much more likely, but who could replace Sherlock in your heart? Who could possibly be as interesting and brilliant as Sherlock? Catch your attention with a single glance—“

Mycroft paused, eyes widening, “ _Oh_.”

Greg dove for the gun, wresting it out of Mycroft’s hands while the man looked down at him with muted surprise. He scrabbled around on the ground, scooping up the bullets and the magazine, as Mycroft finally murmured, “Me.”

He’d pushed two bullets in when something small dropped onto his head. He grabbed it, bringing it around to his face, finding himself staring at the firing pin.

“You planned this,” he said dumbly, “You already knew all along.”

Mycroft just smiled, kneeling down and brushing a finger down Greg’s cheek to the underside of his jaw, pushing Greg’s head up with a small nudge. “Game over, Detective Inspector.”

Greg could barely sleep that night, the memories of Mycroft slowly sliding the gun along his cheek haunting him even as he lay alone in bed that night.

“I don’t trust you,” he had said.

“Good,” Mycroft had replied, “You shouldn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was supposed to be an exploration of a way to address the implicit power problem in any relationship involving Mycroft, but now it’s seemed to veer a bit off topic, and, just, whatever. It amuses me. I hope it's entertaining at the least.


	2. The Essence of Power (and its problems)

He hadn’t expected anything to change, really—at least, nothing major. But after three weeks of mind-numbing normality—Sherlock pestering him for cases, he and his team covering the ones that didn’t spark the man’s interest—Greg wondered if anything had really changed at all.

And then Mycroft had him delivered to one of his offices again. He was leaning back in his chair, feet propped onto his desk and hands folded behind his head. The pose was eerily similar to the one Greg had assumed during their first meeting—the one that had started this whole mess. He was sure it was intentional. “Evening, Detective Inspector.”

“Mycroft,” he said, equal parts relief and fear. “Have you finally decided to collect?”

“I see no need to,” replied Mycroft evenly, “You’re serving your purpose quite well already.”

Greg blinked. “You—what—”

“What, Detective Inspector?” Mycroft arched an eyebrow, “You don’t think me pathetic enough to _want_ something from this, do you? I would be a fool, falling for my prey.” He snorted. “No, that could only lead to disaster. Things are much better as they are now.”

Greg blinked again, looking through Mycroft without a whit of comprehension. “So it was really just a game to you,” he said after an eternity, voice toneless and hollow. “You insinuated yourself in my life, all to see me panic and dance as I slowly obsessed over you. Your brother had a new toy and you were jealous, so you decided to try and steal it away.”

Mycroft stared steadily back at him. “Yes,” he finally said.

“Congratulations then. I hope it was amusing for you,” Greg threw his hands up. “You’ve captured my heart. Have it, you utter arse, you win. Game over.”

He stormed out of the room, slamming the door viciously behind him. He was a fool—for believing that Mycroft could be anything other than manipulative and controlling, for even _entertaining_ the idea that there might be something more there. _Foolish_ , _foolish, fool,_ he could hear Sherlock reprimand, _so naïve, seeing but not observing as always._

Mycroft stared blankly at the air in front of him, eyes empty and distant. “But it changed,” he whispered to the room. “For I am a fool.”

Greg stopped seeing Mycroft after that meeting, which only intensified his feeling like a toy that had been abandoned. He threw himself into work, distracted himself with others’ problems, went out and got pissed with his friends.

But in every dream, Mycroft slipped in from the corners, and every time he woke up, it was with Mycroft’s name on his lips.

\--

Greg liked John. He was a refreshing breath of air compared to the tense staleness of his life. He wasn’t a subordinate under his care, not a condescending superior, nor was he a Holmes—though he had experience dealing with them—which was infinitely comforting.

The problem, then, was that because John knew the Holmeses extremely well—lived with one, in fact—he could see through Greg’s bullshit about Mycroft in seconds.

“You know,” said John casually, “Mycroft never shows up at cases where you aren’t the lead investigator.”

“Funny, that. He’s always had a terrible sense of humour,” said Greg, ignoring John’s curious gaze. “Sherlock doesn’t work very well with any of the other DIs anyway.”

“Greg.” John was giving him his _no shit_ stare, and he sighed.

“It’s something leftover from before you showed up. It’s not purely nefarious and I can handle it. Really.”

“ _Purely_ nefarious?”

“It’s Mycroft,” said Greg like it was an explanation. Which it was, because Mycroft added layers beyond layers of complexity whenever he became involved with anything. It almost made Greg’s head hurt thinking about it.

John sighed and shook his head. “If you’re sure,” he said doubtfully.

“Positive,” confirmed Greg. “Now tell me how Sherlock managed to clock himself in the head this time.”

\--

Their next pub meeting was a few weeks later. They were sharing some crisps and watching the ManU versus Arsenal game, though Greg wasn’t extremely interested and John was just there to escape Sherlock for a few hours.

“I honestly think you’re misjudging him, you know.” John’s sipping at his pint, eyes loosely focused on the pub television screen.

Greg’s hand stopped in mid-air, crisps falling to the table with a few splintering cracks. “Is this about Mycroft again?” he asked crossly. “I thought we went over this already.”

“Yes, this is about Mycroft,” said John, “Because you’re obviously hiding things from me.” He held a hand up before Greg could speak, “Which is fine. You’ve obviously been dealing with the both of them for years before I entered the picture—but it’s just, Mycroft doesn’t _act_ like that.”

“Like what?” asked Greg, running a hand down his face in exasperation. “Like an utter prick? A robot masquerading as a human? An unfeeling machine? Because, I’m sorry to inform you, but those are his main modes of communication.”

John blinked. “I was going to say lovesick teenager,” he said slowly. “He has this desperate look in his eyes whenever he watches you. Which is often, by the way.”

He stared at John, brain barely processing his words, before he started laughing hysterically. “Mycroft Holmes has me in the palm of his hand,” he said firmly, wiping tears from the corner of his eyes. “He is free to do what he wishes with my fate. I am simply another pawn in his ever-moving game of chess.” The words are gliding smoothly out of his mouth now, running up his throat in amused bubbles. “My only source of value is providing Sherlock with cases and amusement. He’s made himself quite clear in that respect.”

John stared down into his pint for a moment, fingers curling and uncurling around the handle of his mug. “You sound bitter,” he finally said, “Burned.”

“I offered him my soul,” said Greg plainly, “And he threw it back in my face.”

The button camera nestled discreetly in the corner of the John’s jacket suddenly turned away from the pair. And, far, far away, hands dragging through his hair, a man dropped his head to stare down at the desk in front of him, trying not to scream.

\--

It was after that meeting that Greg started spying Mycroft at his crime scenes, lurking at the corners, trying to look inconspicuous. Sherlock never seemed to pay his brother any attention, and Mycroft never tried to talk to him.

It wasn’t until the Addington case when it all came to head.

They were running—sprinting, really—ducking and weaving g through abandoned streets and alleyways trying to avoid the shots whistling past them from behind. An ambush on a drug transaction gone wrong, and now they were fleeing for their lives.

“You _had_ to throw off Mycroft’s tail, didn’t you?” shouted John, voice slightly hysterical, “You knew this was going to be dangerous. It’d be bloody helpful to know there’d at least be backup coming.”

Sherlock pursed his lips, “I didn’t know it’d be _this_ dangerous. He’s always such a busybody, he’ll have started tracking us down the second we lost him.” How he found the attention to talk back while calculating and directing them along their jagged route, Greg didn’t know.

“See, there’s the problem.” They hurriedly jumped a fence before flinging themselves at a nearby fire escape, starting to climb up. “We _lost_ them.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, obviously ready to think up a witty retort, but Greg cut him off. “Can we just focus on _escaping_?” he yelled, breath coming in gasps and making him sound wheezy. He really needed to exercise more; he was definitely out of shape for these kinds of runs.

A few shots, different from the ones aimed at them, rang out, soon followed by the dull thumps of bodies hitting the ground. It was quiet for a few seconds before they heard one last shot, probably aimed at a straggler trying to flee, before a black-clothed agent quietly dropped next to them by their spot on the fire escape balcony. “Please follow me, sirs.”

“You’ve obviously finished that business,” said Sherlock, frowning, “There’s no need to protect us. Why should we follow?”

“Doctor Watson is injured.” The stranger reached out to grab John’s arm, lifting it to expose the slight bleeding at his side.

John winced. “It’s just a scratch,” he protested, squirming to bring his arm down, “It’s nothing I can’t deal with myself.”

“Mister Holmes insists,” the man held John’s arm firm, not budging an inch. “It would be unwise to oppose his wishes.” The threat in his words was palpable.

Sherlock’s mouth thinned to a line, “Fine.”

The agent led them to the main street, escorting them to a nearby clinic where a few nurses dragged John away into an examining room, leaving Greg to slouch back into a plastic seat and Sherlock pacing across the floor.

“He couldn’t have found us that quickly, even if his operatives were smart and lucky enough to figure out the general direction we were heading. It’d only be possible if he were tracking one of us, but I threw—“ Sherlock stopped halfway through his sentence, giving Greg a thoughtful look. “Hm.”

“Sherlock,” he said warily, “Anything you’re thinking, I can guarantee that it’s wrong.”

One of Sherlock’s eyebrows lifted, “You return his sentiment.”

“Yes.” Because it’s not like Greg had been trying to hide it, anyway. “I do.”

Up went the other eyebrow to join its twin. “Fascinating,” he said, like Greg was just another one of his experiments.

John walked back toward them, a tired smile on his face. “Managed to finally convince them that I was right and it’s just a graze.” He tugged at Sherlock’s arm, “Let’s get back home, now.”

Sherlock turned to look at John. “Did you know that Lestrade is in love with Mycroft?” he asked, tone casual, but gray eyes keen, searching for his partner’s reaction.

“Yes.” John shot Greg an apologetic glance. “Two years now, if I remember correctly.”

“Oh.” Sherlock shifted back, blinking in surprise. “That was before our acquaintance.”

“I told him,” Greg cut in, sighing, “Because he asked.”

Sherlock paused, looking between the two. “This is like that name thing, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Sherlock. Exactly.”

A black car pulled up to the kerb then, and John tugged at Sherlock’s arm. “This isn’t our place to interfere, Sherlock. Let’s go home.”

They walked off, leaving Greg to warily approach the car. The door opened and Mycroft eyed him calmly from inside. “Would you like a ride home, Detective Inspector?”

He stepped in, leaning back in the leather cushions and making himself comfortable. He’d almost missed these free rides. “What are you doing?” he asked crossly, “You don’t loiter.”

“I also don’t frequent crime scenes,” agreed Mycroft, “And yet, here we are.”

Greg frowned. “You rejected _me_ , I hope you realize.”

“Observant as always.” The door opened and Greg stumbled out with a brief push from Mycroft. “Sometimes wanting is better than having, Detective Inspector.”

Greg watched the black car drive away, question burning in the back of his head and confusion clouding his mind.

The answer didn’t come to him until a few days later, when he was staring at the television like a zombie with a beer in his hand. The plan to fix it came faster, assembling itself in steps and details as fast as Greg could think.

\--

Greg let himself into the flat, setting the picklock set—stolen from Sherlock during one of their arguments when they still lived together—onto the living room table and his coat on the couch.

He made his way into the bedroom, lying down on the bed and covering himself with the blankets. He settled himself comfortably on his back. He fell asleep—he could wait.

“Detective Inspector,” said Mycroft dryly, “A surprise visit? I’m flattered.”

Greg blinked himself awake, sleepily rubbing at his eyes. “You moved your office and you wouldn’t answer my calls.”

Mycroft sat on the bed next to him, a fair amount of space and the covers separating them. His eyebrow was already raised, fingers tapping a slow rhythm on his umbrella. “I had reason to believe I wasn’t exactly on your good side. Our last meeting ended quite…curiously.”

“John Watson was discharged four months before he met Sherlock.”

“Yes,” said Mycroft mildly.

“Then how is it that I’m still alive? The rules of our game were quite simple; you won as soon as you found a suitable keeper to replace me.”

Mycroft paused. “And what made you think that that was my only motive for playing the game? You sell yourself short, Detective Inspector. You’ve proven yourself quite fascinating.”

Greg blinked, propping himself onto his elbows as he thought. “Sentiment,” he finally said in awe.

“Sentiment,” repeated Mycroft, enunciating the word like it pained him.

“Sherlock always said that sentiment was a chemical defect found only on the losing side.” Greg shook his head, “But you didn’t lose. In fact, you won. Overwhelmingly.”

“That would depend on your definition of winning, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft sighed, “Yes, I successfully removed you from my brother’s life, but I’ve failed in my other endeavours in this game of ours.”

He blinked. “Other endeavours?”

“Yes, I suppose they don’t very much matter anymore now, do they? I’ve failed quite miserably in predicting your responses.” Mycroft sighed again, “No matter how much I try to gauge your worth, you always find a way to surprise me.

“You’ve always found yourself infatuated with my brother, yes? Even now, when you’ve rejected him.” Greg opened his mouth to interrupt, but Mycroft cut him off with a curt hand-wave. “Not that I fault you for that, Sherlock does have the strange ability to attract people to him, even with his horrid personality.

“I confess, I didn’t find you very interesting upon our first meeting. Another average man hypnotised by my brother’s brilliance. But then you rebuffed me, successfully using my weaknesses to your advantage. You deigned to prove yourself equal—and oh, that was _new_. You were Sherlock’s, but I wanted a chance to play, too, to see how far I could push.

“And then it became—” Mycroft’s mouth thinned into a strained line. “—something more.”

“I grew on you,” said Greg, eyes wide with wonder, “You were attached. You started caring.”

Mycroft sighed. “And caring is a weakness I cannot allow myself, Detective Inspector. Please accept that and leave.” He stood, making his way out of the room. “I would rather not have this conversation again now that you understand.”

Greg scrambled up, rushing after Mycroft. “Now why would I do that?”

“Alone, you are charming, intelligent, and humorous,” said Mycroft. “With me, I fear all of those qualities will disappear. I can only offer you the most precious gift I can give—your freedom and independence. I will not see myself cripple you—see you slowly learn to hate me as you once did.”

He opened the door to his flat, and Greg walked out, still a bit shell-shocked from the confession.

“Goodbye, Gregory.”


	3. Wanting (what you can't have)

Mycroft took one step into his flat and promptly stopped.

“You get back late, you know? I’ve been waiting here for hours.” Greg leaned back in the couch and smiled at him from where he was watching television. “I hope you don’t mind if I used some of the stuff in your fridge. I was hungry and didn’t feel like ordering take-out, but I wrapped the leftovers if you’re hungry.”

“You’re on my couch,” said Mycroft flatly.

Greg raised an eyebrow. “Yes. I thought that would be quite obvious.”

Eye twitching, Mycroft finally closed the door behind him, stalking into the room toward Greg. “Why are you on my couch?”

“Because I’m watching telly,” he said slowly, “And I don’t want to stand.”

“I distinctly remember telling you to leave.”

“You never said I couldn’t come back.” He flashed a charming smile. “It’s fine, I already moved a few things into the spare bedroom. There’s tea on the kettle, by the by.”

It was a credit to Mycroft’s well-honed stoicism when he simply dropped onto the couch and brought a hand to his face. “You what?”

“Made tea,” replied Greg cheerfully, “I can get you some if you’d like. Unless you meant the moving-in part.” He shrugged. “I had a day off, no worry.”

“You—” Mycroft paused. “—are insufferable.”

“Absolutely. And I’m not moving my things back after all the trouble getting them here—not like you would kick me out either way.” Greg kicked his feet up onto the couch. “Now won’t you watch telly with me _, darling_?”

Mycroft marched into his bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind him. Hearing the click of the lock, Greg shrugged and turned back to the television.

\--

“Why has my brother suddenly turned to texting?” demanded Sherlock, storming into his office, “Mycroft doesn’t text.”

Greg looked up from the case files he was reading through, spying John running toward his door, panicked expression in tow. “Oh, there you are. I think you might want this case—”

“Dull.” Sherlock slapped the offered folder away. “No, this is much more interesting. What’ve you done to my brother?”

“And how do you expect _me_ to know what’s wrong with _your_ brother?” asked Greg.

Sherlock snorted. “Even if he hadn’t texted me specifically saying, ‘Please remove your Detective Inspector from my life’, there are a dozen other indicators on your person that reveal your… _involvement_ with him.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “It’s nothing we can’t work out ourselves.”

“Obviously not,” snapped Sherlock, “He _texted_ me.”

“And I assume I’m supposed to know what that means?”

“Sherlock!” John burst into his office, flashing a brief apologetic glance at him. “What in the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Solving my brother’s case.” Sherlock’s eyes didn’t leave Greg’s. “You always did say we should bond.”

“No, Sherlock. I told you.” He pulled at Sherlock’s arm. “This isn’t our place to interfere.”

Sherlock frowned but acquiesced, following John out the door. “Don’t hurt him,” he said over his shoulder. “I need him as much as I need you.”

Greg stirred his cereal around in the bowl. “You told on me to your brother,” he said absentmindedly as Mycroft walked in.

“You’re still here,” said Mycroft instead, surprise evident in his voice.

“I can’t believe you told on me,” he said with amusement, “To _Sherlock_.”

Mycroft gently set his briefcase and suit jacket onto one of the dining table chairs before sliding into the chair across from Greg. “He told you.” Greg just _looked_ at him and he sighed. “Of course he told you.”

“Your brother is incapable of keeping anything even slightly personal secret.”

“Yes, although it somehow escaped my mind. I haven’t the faintest clue how, considering his usual dalliances.” Mycroft looked like he had bitten into something incredibly sour.

Greg laughed. “I don’t understand how you expected him to move me out, anyway. Getting desperate now, are we?”

“I don’t understand what you’re trying to prove by doing this,” replied Mycroft, avoiding the subject as usual.

“You have a nice bed and an enormous telly.” Greg shrugged. “And I may or may not be a stubborn git who can’t understand why you won’t just say yes.”

“And I’ve told you—it’s not a choice on the table. People will seek you out to use you against me. _I_ can destroy you on a whim.” Mycroft brought a hand up to smooth out the furrows between his brow. “You must understand that there is no in between in this. You can’t back out—if I have you, I won’t let go.”

Greg reached out to touch Mycroft’s hand, palm resting on the backs of his fingers. “What makes you think I’d ever want you to?”

Mycroft whipped his hand back like he’d been burned. “Don’t,” he growled. “You have no idea what that means.”

He frowned. “Well, you won’t _tell_ me.”

“For very good reasons, _Detective Inspector_.” Mycroft twisted away, standing and stepping to the side in one fluid motion. “You have no place here.”

Greg could feel his frustration start to overflow, coating his words in a sharp bitterness. “Only because _you_ refuse to take a risk.” His voice slowly rose in volume. “You’re the one who can destroy me. I’m the one putting everything on the line. I’m willing to sacrifice things for this, and I thought you cared enough to do the same.”

“Again, you have utterly no idea what that _means_ ,” exploded Mycroft. “Even knowing me puts you in contact with echelons of power that you cannot hope to comprehend. What if I forced you to sacrifice more than you were willing to give? Pushed you to resign? Cut any contact between you and your friends and family? Cage you in this house like a _pet_ ,” he spat. “Would this all seem worth it then? Could you even bear to look at me after I destroyed your life?”

Greg was silent for a moment too long, so that when he said, “You wouldn’t,” it came with a slight hesitance that they could both hear.

“I won’t risk something that will inevitably end in pain and heartbreak for both parties,” whispered Mycroft, voice calm and toneless again. “Sometimes, Gregory, having is not always as pleasing as wanting.”

He turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving Greg to stare at the table.

He didn’t follow.

\--

For the first second into his kidnapping, Greg still thought it was just Mycroft sending a car.

Mycroft never sent an armed guard, though. And based off the size of the gun currently aimed at his head, Greg was pretty sure it wasn’t a fluke.

“Detective Inspector,” said an accented voice from the passenger seat. “I hope we don’t have any problems.” A cloth sack was shoved into his hands. He sighed and slipped it over his head. At least it seemed like they’d washed it.

Greg almost laughed when the bag was finally removed. He was in warehouse, which was just such a cliché _Mycroft_ move.

The man in front of him—tall and lanky, cropped brown hair, with a solid unamused expression on his face—took a second to look around the room before turning back to Greg. “Is something funny?” He asked in flawless RP.

“No,” said Greg, even as he struggled to swallow back a chuckle. “Just a bit of nerves.”

The man didn’t look persuaded, simply arching an eyebrow before shrugging. “Allow me to introduce myself. I hold a minor position in the Danish government—”

“Bloody hell,” cut in Greg. “Do you _all_ use that line?”

The man’s lips curled into a satisfied smirk. “Ah, so you’re acquainted with Mycroft Holmes?”

“I’m frequently harassed by his brother,” corrected Greg, because that was completely true. “I’m not otherwise connected to Mr. Holmes.” Which wasn’t quite true, but it was close enough.

The dratted eyebrow was back. “And yet you’re living with him?”

“I am?” Well, technically he wasn’t yet, at least legally. “My permanent residence is actually a one-bedroom flat in P—”

“You haven’t slept there in the past two weeks.” Another smarmy smile.

“Is that so?” asked Greg sweetly, almost cloying in its sarcasm. “I wasn’t aware I had a stalker.”

And just when Greg thought the eyebrow would remain down, it shot right back up. “Then what would you call Mycroft Holmes?”

“An acquaintance.”

“Acquaintances do not put _normal_ people on surveillance. And you, Detective Inspector, are exceedingly normal.”

“Henry, you failed to mention you’d be in this weekend.” Greg blinked and turned, watching Mycroft stroll in from a corner of the warehouse with surprise. “If you wanted to talk, you need only call.”

“I assure you, we’ll have _much,_ ” and here “Henry” gave him a significant look, “to talk about, Mycroft.”

They’re bundled up in another one of Mycroft’s black cars when Greg finally asked the pertinent question on his mind. “What in the bloody hell?”

Mycroft arched an eyebrow, and, Christ, Greg had had enough of people looking at him like _he_ was the weird one. “Why was I abducted? Who in the world was that? How did he know who I was? And why do you all use that stupid line?”

“I was unaware we shared a similar catchphrase,” said Mycroft, completely ignoring all of the questions with any real importance. “We will have to rectify that when we talk.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “It’s a terrible line, and you’re not being very subtle about avoiding questions.”

“Henry is simply ensuring that I have not changed in terms of efficiency because of our arrangement. I do not open myself often, you must understand. Having someone move in is rash and wholly unlike my usual methods.” Mycroft sighed. “I should have had you removed from my flat the moment I found you in my sitting room, but I found that I didn’t want you to leave. It seemed trivial at the time.” He closed his eyes. “Obviously, that was wrong. And so you will find your things in your flat by day’s end, Detective Inspector.”

“We’ve been over this a hundred times.” Greg scowled, saying in his most adamant tone, “I’m not leaving.”

“Then _I_ will move.” Mycroft threw out a hand to cut off Greg’s protest before he could even begin speaking. “There is no happy ending where we end up together, Gregory. I will always expect more than you can give and you will always be left wanting more from me than I am able to provide.”

The door to the car opened suddenly, and Mycroft practically shoved him out onto the kerb.

\--

Two Mycroft-free weeks later, Sherlock stepped up to him and simply remarked, “You’re a mess,” sliding something into Greg’s pocket, before slipping away to join John at the corner of the crime scene.

He nearly forgot about it until he reached his flat ( _actually_ his flat, Mycroft had done as good as promised and simply had his things taken back), when he took off his jacket and it fell off the couch, thumping as it hit the ground.

Sherlock’s gift ended up being a slim black phone—a blackberry to be precise—and Greg powered it on cautiously—he wouldn’t put it above Sherlock to give him a bomb he’d forgotten to defuse or something equally nefarious.

He almost dropped it as it immediately started into a blaring jangle of its ringtone, pressing the call button and lifting it to his ear.

“ _Finally_ ,” said Sherlock, obviously irritated. “You’re ten minutes later than I planned. John’s due back with the groceries in fifteen minutes.”

“What?” asked Greg intelligently.

He could hear Sherlock’s exaggerated sigh. “Just listen. Don’t talk.”

He was interrupted by ringing before he could protest, and then he heard Mycroft’s voice politely saying, “Yes, brother dear?” on the other line.

He froze, torn between hanging up and dropping the phone or continuing to listen, but Sherlock decided to make that decision quite easy for him.

“I won’t take the Herring case. It’s a terrible—excuse my phrasing—red herring, as you already know,” Sherlock rushed. His voice suddenly sharpened, becoming as keen as a knife’s edge, aimed to cut and hurt whoever it happened upon. “But do tell me why you’re being an imbecile _this_ time, brother. You realise he’s his own independent person and can make his own decisions.”

“The matter doesn’t concern you, Sherlock, and it would be in your best interest to leave it as such.”

“This _matter_ concerns both my brother and my detective inspector. I fail to see your point.”

Mycroft huffed impatiently, exhaling loudly. “It does not directly affect you in any way whatsoever. Your detective inspector will continue to supply you with cases and I will continue monitoring your activities. I cannot comprehend how the Colden case took you so long, by the by—the trowel should have made it distinctly obvious that it was the gardener.”

“Lestrade’s become even more insufferably depressing, and you a more irritating bother. It’d make my life much easier if you would shift your concerns onto a more willing target—namely the one you’re utterly besotted with.”

The ensuing silence was so long and tense that Greg could practically see the frown on Mycroft’s face.

“The needs of the many—” he finally began.

“Outweigh the needs of the one,” interrupted Sherlock, “Yes, yes. Do stop quoting Star Trek and be a little more serious, will you?”

“However fantastical the source material, the words still hold a ounce of truth.”

Sherlock snorted. “And do they bring you comfort when you sulk by the fireplace alone? Are you happy, Mycroft? Playing with your chess pieces, ruling the world from your armchair—does any of that truly have any meaning?”

There was another pause this time, a few seconds longer than the last.

“Caring is not an advantage—” started Mycroft again.

“I don’t want any more of your excuses,” Sherlock cut in again. “You know they risked their lives and their careers to save Spock in the end. Because everyone deserves that chance. To live for himself and be happy.”

Sherlock hung up with a click, evidently content with having the last word it seemed. Greg was about to follow when he heard a soft murmur.

“How can I live for myself when I’ve never learned to?”

The connection shut soon after, leaving Greg to move the phone from his ear and stare at the shiny black surface.

\--

He stormed into the Diogenes a little after twelve, ten minutes into his lunch break. He ignored the few men sitting in the entrance hallway—all who paid him the same courtesy—and headed straight toward the stairs up to Mycroft’s private office, ripping the door open with vicious pleasure.

“You’re afraid,” he accused.

“Oh?” Mycroft looked up and arched an eyebrow. “Of what?”

“You keep hiding behind this—stupid, self-sacrificing martyr façade when you’re really just a coward.”

Mycroft frowned. “Need I remind you of how easy it would be for me to have you removed?” he asked testily.

“You wouldn’t,” he replied instantly. “You wouldn’t force me to sacrifice beyond my limits. You wouldn’t drag me into your work. You wouldn’t lift a finger against me.”

“Really. And how do you know I wouldn’t do any of those things?” asked Mycroft, smile bitter and poisonous.

“Because I trust you,” said Greg.

Mycroft looked like he’d been slapped straight across the face.

Twice.

With a giant fish.

“You say that,” said Mycroft, voice slightly shaken, “As if you mean it.”

Greg shrugged. “Won’t you let yourself be happy for once, Mycroft?’

\--

He didn’t bother letting himself hope as he trudged his way home that night. No texts or calls from Mycroft, no black car idling at the kerb when he left the Yard.

He had no more moves left on the table, after all. The game lay solely on Mycroft’s shoulders now.

When he got back to the flat, the lights were off but the door unlocked, and he allowed himself just a glimmer of hope as he pushed the handle in and flicked on the lights.

Mycroft was looking up at him from where he was sitting on the couch, an unsure look riveted to his face—reminiscent of a deer in headlights, really. “You wouldn’t stop.” It would be a complaint if it were coming from anyone but Mycroft.

Greg laughed, throwing his coat and briefcase to the side and hopping onto the couch next to Mycroft. He tucked his head into the curve of Mycroft’s neck, letting a hand rest on his heart. “You were flattered, admit it,” he teased. “You enjoyed being wanted.”

There was a pause before Mycroft laid a hesitant kiss on his forehead. “I will never be the man you want me to be,” he whispered.

“That’s fine,” murmured Greg. “You’re already the man I need.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, god, I hope that this was somewhat plausible. I realize enjoying this requires a seriously giant suspension of disbelief, especially considering Greg essentially does the same thing twenty times before Mycroft finally caves.
> 
> Anyway, yeah, concrit is awesome, how you at least enjoyed the ride. (:

**Author's Note:**

> So this was supposed to be an exploration of a way to address the implicit power problem in any relationship involving Mycroft, but now it’s seemed to veer a bit off topic, and, just, whatever. It amuses me. I hope it's entertaining at the least.


End file.
